That One Woman
by HiM'e'iTSu
Summary: It was a terrible rainy day when he decided to visit her grave. One woman who had the most influence on his life. He wasn't expecting to see two strangers, standing by the tombstone and talking quietly. Small Sherlock/Skyfall crossover. So, spoilers. Mild Mystrade and Johnlock.


**A/N:** I wanted to write a Sherlock/Skyfall crossover ever since I first saw Skyfall trailer. I mean, they called her 'Mummy'…It was inevitable.

Also, managed to squeeze some Mystrade and Johnlock here.

This is set after the series two of Sherlock and after the events of the movie Skyfall.

**Beta:** **theLilyandtheRose **, who I'd like to thank for her help. I didn't accept all her suggestions but I am very grateful for her work:)

* * *

The day was terrible. That was actually the point. No one would come to visit a grave weeks after the funeral on a day when the rain was so hard it was impossible to see anything a few feet in front of you. As it turned out, James was wrong. He hated when that happened.

There were two men, standing before the gravestone he came to visit. Both tall and slim, one holding a large umbrella over their heads and the other flicking a cigarette between his fingers. He saw their lips move but couldn't make out the words.

James tried to get a little closer, moving between the intricate statues, hiding behind the mausoleum, crouching behind the iron fence for one moment when the taller man glanced in his direction. He found a good place behind the monstrosity that depicted a weeping angel, hidden by large stone wings, not directly in their line of sight but close enough to be able to hear the snippets of their conversation over the sound of the pouring rain.

"…there when it happened?" The younger man asked. His dark curls stuck to his temples, where the rain reached him, despite the protection of the umbrella. From that point his face was completely visible, hard lines on pale skin and dark circles under startling blue eyes that were dull as they stared at the grave.

"No." The other man delivered his answer in a clipped tone; there were emotions bubbling under the surface but he did not let them overwhelm him. "You know perfectly well that I wasn't, Sherlock."

_Sherlock_, _what a peculiar name_. The man it belonged to let out a huff. "You don't know much, do you?"

"I know more than _you_ do."

"Just because I can't get my hands on the classified information and thus am not able to make the deductions." He sounded annoyed, but it was obvious that he didn't mean it. The two men were silent for a long time.

"Mycroft…" The one in the large coat called out softly. "I want to know everything."

"I already told you-"

"I don't care." He countered in an angry whisper. "I have the right to know."

"The government-"

"Has nothing to do with this. It has nothing to do with _us_." Sherlock met Mycroft's eyes for a moment as he said it, angry, sad and pleading. The cigarette between his fingers was about to go out so he flicked it to the ground, where it got drenched by the rain; a thin stream of smoke like the soul leaving a body.

Mycroft slowly reached into his pocket and fished out a whole pack, opening it with a practiced movement of one hand and offering the younger man another cigarette. Sherlock took it, not uttering a word. After a moment of eye contact he turned back to stare at the gravestone. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag before offering it to the other man.

Mycroft looked contemplative.

"I'm not going to try to inflict revenge." Sherlock said, probably hoping it'd persuade the older man.

"There is no one to be revenged upon." Mycroft shrugged. "The man who did it is dead. Killed by one of her agents."

"Her new favourite?" Sherlock asked and there was contempt in his voice, a very thin layer of disdain.

They were talking about James, but they didn't even know it. He should have been angered by such treatment, but strangely he realized he didn't care. James _was_ her favourite; he knew that. Not many people were pleased with it. Hell, there were times when even he didn't like it. But it didn't matter anymore.

James was trapped in a world of his own for a moment, memories swarming his mind, good, bad and terrible, but it was nothing. It didn't matter. Emotions were for those who had normal lives. For a moment he wondered if those two standing at her grave had normal lives. He was so deep in his thoughts he missed Mycroft's nod and Sherlock's next words. When his mind came back to the task, Mycroft had taken the cigarette from the other man and they were discussing a different subject.

"Did you read her will?"

"No." Sherlock's answer was harsh and the 'I'm not going to' went unsaid but the implication was clear.

"I'm going to deliver the things she left you eventually…Well, not your share of the family home, but all the smaller things. The ones that can actually be moved…"

The words 'family home' caught James's attention and he looked at the two men in a new light. A realization that they were not just mere colleagues, ones of many, hit him hard, leaving an indescribable feeling in its wake. It was good, knowing that someone would remember her not only as a cold and collected boss, but as…as what? Who were those two men?

"I don't need them."

"No," Mycroft agreed calmly. "But you want them. You are sentimental, just like any other man."

Sherlock obviously wasn't pleased being compared to other people. It was easy for James to relate to.

"Did she know about…me?" Sherlock asked hesitantly after the silence stretched into minutes and they had shared the cigarette until the end.

Mycroft considered his answer, not paying attention to the other's impatient glances. Finally he replied. "Of course, she did. Even if she didn't find out herself, I'd have told her."

"That's…nice."

"She inquired after John."

At these words Sherlock turned his head sharply, and his blue eye fixed on the other's face with such intensity; it seemed that for the whole time they had been standing there and talking quietly this was the subject that actually bothered him. When they talked about _her_, it was that dull sadness, so familiar for James. But now. Now it was something different.

"Asked how he was coping." Mycroft continued.

"And what did you tell her?"

The older man glanced at him sideways, his mouth twisting into a smirk. "Is this a way to subtly ask me about John? You never do that. You clearly prefer to go to Gregory for the information."

Sherlock scoffed. "Fine."

"She approved of him." Mycroft commented quietly.

The silence fell again. They stood there, two men united in their grief, just looking down at the grave of a person dear to them.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke it. James turned, searching with his eyes for the other person, making sure that he was still hidden from view by the statue.

"I hate to interrupt, but you've been out in this bloody rain for too long already!" A man shouted from the distance. "You'll both get sick and I am not going to take care of you." He said as he approached the duo.

"Really, Gregory?" Mycroft lifted one eyebrow and looked at the newcomer pointedly.

"Fine, I'll take care of _you_. But not of your brother. Definitely not."

"As if I need your help, Lestrade." Sherlock snapped.

So, they were brothers. Interesting.

"Gregory is right. It's time to go." Mycroft looked at Sherlock, not pushing, just asking. The other man nodded.

Mycroft handed his brother the umbrella, Sherlock accepting it without a word, as his brother ducked under the one the newcomer was holding. They left first.

Sherlock stood there for a couple of minutes, his impression somber but posture less tense than half an hour ago. He seemed different now.

Sherlock took one deep breath, let it out slowly, turned away and left.

_Finally_, James thought as he was free to step away from his hiding place and approach the grave. He had come to visit her and wasn't planning on being deterred by the two unexpected visitors. But then, for James Bond things never went according to plan.

James stepped around the gravestone.

The rain was still pouring heavily, but despite that the golden letters on the dark stone were visible. The name was obscured by a bouquet of flowers. White lilies, still fresh and beautiful, probably brought by the two men he had watched just moments before.

The surname was still visible. James's eyes bored into bold letters, committing them to memory. Her influence on his life was too big to ever forget; she was too important to be remembered as just a letter. _M_.

Her gravestone told another story. Called another name.

_HOLMES_

James would remember it. He crouched and carefully moved aside a flower of lily to see the first name as well. Nodding to himself he got up to his feet and left, following the steps of her two sons.


End file.
